Bobby D'Angelo
You wake up at 10:13 AM, relieved because it’s your day off but frustrated because you can feel that your REM levels are off, which means your going to spend the first half of your day pissed off for no reason, like when you were in 8th grade, and your Mom refused to leave the house as you painstakingly counted down the seconds to indulge in the Halloween-colored version of YouTube. You fire open Instagram and give your boys down south a nice pinch itch, as your eyes become mesmerized by infographics louder than the shit that Snoop Dogg smokes. For anybody that lives in a liberal area or goes to a liberal school, this Supreme Court decision was like your weiner seeing its shadow- six more months of resources being shared via Instagram and Tinder looking more barren than a once naturally rich Middle Eastern country after our government decides it needs democracy.
As you hold on to a banister for dear life and slightly throw up in your mouth, the thought of Mr. Beast running a Dallas Buyers Club-style abortion clinic in which women looking to terminate their pregnancies get dropped thirty-five feet from his Squid-Games bridge enters your mind. You snicker until you realize that the line between reality and South Park has diminished, and that’s a real possibility. As you enter your kitchen, you notice that your Mom is on the phone with some sort of customer service agency, which is most definitely ruining a day for a poor soul overseas, and you evade all confrontation by playing with your family dog, whose either named Marley, Cooper, Bella, Sadie, Stella, Max, Riley, Rocky, Zeus, Murphy, Scout, Scooby, Buster, Henry, or Lucky. A suburban family dog lives a life that mirrors the career of Rajon Rondo- it’s a bright new Superstar on the block at first, but it slowly transitions into a reliable option to run the point. Both are huge pieces of your childhood.
The to-do list today is short but dense, kind of like Frank Gore:
-oil change (you should have gotten one a while ago)
-do some kind of manual labor for your Mom while envisioning yourself dunking on your ex-girlfriend as Rufus Du Sol serenades your ears (a given)
-acquire Zynage
-and try to go to the gym
It’s not working on the NYSE, but it’s honest work. When you’ve completed 60% of those tasks, and you’re driving home with two fresh posted notes in the northeast corridor of your mouth, the girl you’ve -ish been talking with from Tinder confirms that she’s down to meet tonight. By your statistical estimates, your Dad and sister are out of the house, and your Mom is going to some event that’s LARPing as something more substantial but is just an excuse for women to get wine drunk and yell about Nancy Pelosi. You should be in the clear. She comes over, dawning garb that says something along the lines of I too have hormones running rampant through my body, but I want you to respect me, and thirty minutes into The Social Network, things start to delta v/ delta t. You are Captain Sully. You are about to do the impossible. A lot of people said you would never land that plane, a lot of people said there was no way you would end a dry spell next to a framed Christmas card from 2013, but you’re about to prove them wrong. And just as you’re about to replace Stav as the third chair in Cumtown, your family dog starts barking, and a woman that’s had four glasses of cabernet walks through your door. Life in the big city.
